Final
by Lapislazuli
Summary: Surprise - almost what the title says. And I must tell you that English is not my native language, so please forgive me my mistakes. It's the first story I try to write in English.
1. Default Chapter

FINAL  
  
I  
  
**I decided to write my own story about "The Phantom Of The Opera". Reading it's title you will already be able to guess what it is about. It is my version of the end – I promise not to be too boring, as I am of course not the first to do this task. I am sure there are also more exceptional solutions to do it, but in the beginning one can never know what comes out in the end, right? Every writer knows that – and there is another thing that every writer knows also – being blocked. Lately I am blocked very often and that is part of the reason, why I try to write this story. There seem to be many people out there who want to read phantom-phictions and so I simply thought, that getting replies of people who read my story would cheer up my self-esteem. I'll only make it short, I plan three chapters. And the fact that I already know the plot and the characters, and don't have to come up with them on my own, can be seen as an advantage – the secret is how to make the slight changes that make it worth reading.  
  
And now after this long introduction I hope you won't already be bored enough to decide not to read my story. Here it is ... ***  
  
Christine was prepared. Prepared and ready for everything, Erik would like her to do. She had decided to follow him everywhere, and be it into this dark cold cellar that he seemed to call his home. Why not? Actually she would be pretty thankful, in case he really wanted her to stay with him for the rest of their days. More closely considered it didn't disturb her very much, that she would have to stay down there without sun and without ever seeing a living soul again, but Erik.  
  
For such a long time she had already known, that she was not made for living in this world. But where else? She had told herself, that it could not be. There was only this world and this life to live in. She had to take this one with all it's troubles and discomforts, as everyone else did, or take nothing, give up this life – without anything instead. She had often wondered what it could be, that made others hold on. Were they so much different from her? So much harder and stronger? She was not like all the others. And then sometimes she found herself trying too much to be like them. She tried just to do what was expected from her, just not to attract anyone's attention – except when being on stage.  
  
But Erik gave her the feeling that the way she was, it was perfectly right – as long as she sang perfectly right .... But she wanted to sing, had always wanted. Only people had made her forget how much joy she once had had with it – and her father's death.  
  
"Father?" she said and looked at her reflection in her dressing-room- mirror, as if she could see him there. "You would be proud of me!" she continued aloud and added in her toughts "I am in love with the angel of music." She knew, she could never be sure whether she was alone or not here in her dressing-room.  
  
The look of her eyes fell on a bunch of roses lying on her table. From Raoul. He sent roses every day. This ones had come this morning. Now it was short before the evening performance of "Faust" and she still had not watered them. She had not even dared to touch them. The poor heads of the flowers were hanging down sadly.  
  
She stared at them very long. No, it didn't harm her to look at them. She didn't love Raoul. She told herself that again and again. She had only loved him for the sake of old childhood memories. There was no need to feel bad because of him. She would stay with Erik. Raoul would go to the north- pole, where he would forget her. And she would forget him. When being with Erik she had never been missing Raoul. It was an excellent solution. It had to work.  
  
She put on her costume. She was going to be Marguerite, because "La Carlotta" had a rather tricky problem with her voice lately. It had started that night when this embarrassing thing had happened to her. Somehow Christine felt awkward herself, when remembering. If she only knew why. Probably every vocalist would, because of being afraid that this could also happen to her, but there was also another thing, it had to do with Erik. She didn't want him to make bad things happen to other people because of her. That was what scared her when thinking of him. What would he do next? She wondered. What were the things she didn't know? Soon that would not be necessary anymore. She would be with him and sing for him all the time. And she would never make him angry. She would try to please him and to always obey to what he told her to do. Everything would be easier then. There wouldn't be any decisions to be made. He would make them for her. But what would there be to decide anyway. Nothing would disturb them. All she would be doing would be to make him happy.  
  
Well, maybe not everything would be quite as predictable. Erik was not predictable. He had moods - sometimes so scary. She would get used to this moods as she would get used to his face. Maybe she would find it beautiful someday. She decided to find it beautiful. What was an ugly face compared to his genius and his voice and his whole fascinating presence. Maybe he looked like a corpse – not only his face – but that was alright. She liked it. She herself felt like a corpse sometimes here in this city – buried alive. But he seemed so alive . Hurting words and mean treatments of people had not been able to kill him. He was strong. She knew he was and he had the right to hide after being in human company for far too long. But he should not be lonely because of that. He needed her - so much more than Raoul needed her.  
  
She was someone for him and she was meant to stay with him. She wanted to forget everything else, she only wanted to live for Erik.  
  
**Why shouldn't she want to go with him? Isn't that the point we all kept wondering about since we got to know the original. Please Christine, stay with Erik!!!**  
  
***  
  
Raoul had to stay calm. He had to seem normal and quiet. People must not call him mad. He was shivering all over. The night before he had ruined the window of his bedroom by shooting two bullets of his gun though the glass. Still no-one believed him that he had seen something very threatening outside. They all thought he was about to go crazy because of a young vocalist not replying o his love. Poor spoilt boy!  
  
No one believed what he was trying to explain about Christine's angel of music.  
  
"You try to find an excuse for her rejecting you." they probably thought.  
  
The angel of music was dangerous. Didn't they believe? No ...!  
  
"You are jealous, because she has another lover!"  
  
The angel of music was real, and he was not an ordinary 'other lover'. And he wasn't an angel. And no ghost .... He was very human.  
  
And he tortured Christine, threatened her , he was even more jealous. Said he wanted her because of her voice. And she was so naive to believe he was the Angel of Music that her father had promised her.. But whom could he talk to about that. Even his brother gave him only a pitiful smile, when he started to explain what it was that pained him. And this was the least. He knew he made himself impossible, when running after a girl. A singer. A mad singer. A mad singer who had another lover, and who was not at all interested in him. He wanted to stand up in his box and shout: "Christine! Please come back to me!"  
  
But instead he hid his face behind the velvet box-curtain and tried to get control over his trembling body.  
  
He sat on his chair in the De-Chagny-box and tried not to cry. His brother had met someone he knew in front of their box and had left him alone for a moment – no further embarrassments for now.  
  
When his brother entered he pretended to be reading the programme, but truth was, he could not even put the words together into decent sentences.  
  
"In the intermission I must introduce you to the Comte de Thibaud." Philippe said. Very tactful of him not to mention that it was actually the Vicomtesse de Thibaud, the Comte's sister – about three years younger than Raoul, whom Philippe wanted Raoul to know.  
  
He smiled at his older brother: "Thank you. There is nothing I would rather like to do in the intermission."  
  
Then he again let himself sink against the wall of the box, his face covered by the curtain. Only for a short moment – because his brother gave him a slight bump and a sharp look and so he took a more dignified position again. Staring strait ahead he started pondering again.  
  
Well, he did not understand Christine's actions at all. There had to be a "ghost" – another one. Only that could explain at least a part of it. She had promised to marry him and then given him back the ring – just a few days ago. Then he had been drinking with his brother. Just sitting in Philippe's study, a decanter of fine cognac on the table, sipping out of crystal-glasses – none of them had said a word, and then the following night it had happened. The "ghost" that had poisoned his relationship to Christine had appeared on the veranda – in front of the bed-room – with intention to kill his rival.  
  
Raoul had seen them – the eyes, nearly glowing in the dark. And then after the shot – the blood! One must believe him, but ......  
  
"It was an animal. A cat maybe ...."  
  
But he had seen it and he had felt in his bones that it was something else ....  
  
"You were drunk, you still seem to be!"  
  
The curtains rose – the performance began. Raoul was getting more and more fidgety. He knew that Christine "la nouvelle Marguerite" would perform. But he did not know, whether it had been really a good idea to have come watching her.  
  
When she first appeared on the stage he believed to feel a pain like a dagger turned around in his heart. His eyes hang on her lips with every syllable she sang, and in the end he would not even have been able to tell, whether she had been singing, would not even have been able to tell, whether she had been doing good or bad. But he tried to keep the expression of his face as calm and as motionless as he could.  
  
But was it really true that she was looking in his direction all the time? Her eyes were so distant, as if she was not even seeing him ....  
  
He was still like paralysed, when suddenly – just like a short flash – the lights flickered – it was dark for a moment. Vanished into nothing, leaving her duet-partner alone and confused on the stage.  
  
"Philippe!" Raoul shouted at his brother, jumping up from his seat. "Do you see that! If not I tell you! Christine is not there anymore. Do you hear that? She isn't singing anymore!"  
  
The older one looked at him in a concerned way and his strong arms pushed Raoul gently back to his chair.  
  
"Of course I have seen. And now please stay calm, or do you want everyone here get as nervous as you are?"  
  
"No! That is not possible. They are not scared for Christine." He looked around quickly and den abruptly jumped up again. "I have to get her back. Or he will do something terrible to her. He won't give her back again! I know!" And before Philippe could say a thing Raoul had run away and disappeared into the crowds of people.  
  
He ran as if it was for his life to Christine's dressing room. He knew the mirror. Through the mirror he could get into the subterranean labyrinth.  
  
The door was open, he stormed inside and pressed his ear against the glass. No voice, he only senced the cold and smooth surface.  
  
He pulled and pushed the frame in every possible direction, but it did not want to move. He ran against it tried everything. But nothing happened. In desperation he hit the mirror with his fists and shouted again and again her name.  
  
Then suddenly he felt a firm grasp on his shoulder. "Not so loud!" a voice behind him whispered. The persian.  
  
**Raoul is still the old one ... But what is going to happen? I am still not sure what part I'll let the persian play in the end of my story. It is all up to me what happens ....**  
  
***  
  
Someone was watching everything that was going on in the opera house in gerneral, Christine and Raoul in particular. He did it with a feeling of triumph because of being able to see everything without being seen himself – and with the bitter knowledge of the ever-present lonelyness, because of having to hide.  
  
But that would change tonight. For one person in the world he was not a monster, not something to be ashamed of. He knew she appreciated him as a human being, as a man and as the genius that he was. And this one girl – Christine Daaé – was enough for him. He only wanted her to love him and he loved her with all of his heart. The only thing in the world he wanted was her and he would do everything he could, just to achieve this final aim, for something in him still believed that even he could maybe deserve some happiness. He had never had it, and now, after so many years the time had come also for Erik.  
  
He had planned everything very well. He was an expert with everything concernng the construction of the stage, the lights, the whole opera house – he had constructed it. And that was useful. Only a little moment without light and "the new Marguerite" had disappeared, and while opera-goers were still shocked and paralysed he carried her through the dressing-room-mirror down to where no-one ever could take her away from him.  
  
**Everything goes as planned. Do we want preplanned endings?**  
  
to be continued ...... 


	2. Final II

Final II  
  
He carried her down through endless darkness, far beyond the visible parts of the Opera. One would never guess, what such a splendid place could hide ....  
  
Seh seemed to be afraid, but did not show any resistance. He had put gloves on, for not startling her with his icy hands. Anyway it was cold down here and the air was nastily humid. He was used to it, but he wrapped his cape thighter around her body, because he knew she was not. Apart from that she was only wearing her thin costume.  
  
He felt every muscle of her's being tensed up, and that concerned him, as he had never meant to frighten her. He would have loved her to be fetched in a carriage, filled with soft cussions and sweet-smelling flowers, leading it's way through sunny meadows. He would have liked her to be brought to her wedding like any other bride. But instead he had taken her like a thief – and tat was why it didn't look clear at all anymore, whether it had been her own wish.  
  
He wished, he could at leat embrace her a little thighter, just to offer a little comfort as any loving man would have probably done - but he was not any man. Embraces and closeness were nothing they would share so soon, though he was longing so desperately for her white arms. Once, when she was used to the look and the smell of his skin, when there probably was no need anymore to fret, that she could scream or faint – maybe this would have to be enough for him.  
  
He was secure in finding the way down to the lake in the dark. As they reached the water, the boat was already waiting, tied at the shore. With steady steps he entered the black gondola and carefully sat Christine on the small bank at the bow. She looked at him smiling and when he made them glide across the lake, she curiously bent over to look at the black water and extended her hand towards it.  
  
"Don't!" His voice tore the silence, that had only been disturbed by the gentle splashing of the water, caused by him.  
  
She stared at him, starteled, her eyes widened. He had not meant to be that determined.  
  
"My dear, the water of the lake has nothing that could be of interest to you. Look, you can't even see it." Now he sounded quiet, but bare of any expression. Only he knew how the deadly mechanism worked, that protected him from unwanted visitors.  
  
She lowered her head, like a child that just had been caught in doing something incredibly silly.  
  
"You are right, Erik." She answered. "But – I cannot see it, it's too dark. That is why I wanted to touch it."  
  
"You don't believe, that there is water in my lake? You should not only trust your eyes. You under all should know that you don't only have the sences of sight and touch. Did you forget that. Just listen ..." He made a few movements with his paddle on the water.  
  
"Oh ..." she said and smiled again. "This is the way you orient yourself down here – by listening? Is that what you are doing all the time? You don't even have a lantern." She sounded curious now, eager to find out, how it was to live the way he did.  
  
"I don't need one. Is it that what makes you afraid? The darkness?"  
  
"No, I am only not used to it that much, but I will – very quickly!" she said enthusiastically. "I am sure, you will. One gets used to everything." he tried to keep any cynism out of his words. She didn't want her to get worried too early with matters, that she would anyway find out sooner or later. Things that didn't make everything necessarily brighter.  
  
"In fact I can see very well in the dark. I can see you perfectly. At the moment you have your right hand in your hair ..."  
  
Taken by surprise she let her hand fall on her skirt. "You really do! I can only see your ..."  
  
As her voice trailed off, she could hear his laughter.  
  
"... my mask, you wanted to say. Don't blush. It is alright. You are allowed to say 'mask'. I put on the white one, extra for you, so that you can see it better in the dark. I also have black ones, they meke me invisible. But I thought, you would not find it exactly encouraging, being kidnapped by an invisible phantom."  
  
"Can I also make myself invisible? Could you show me that?"  
  
"I could." He put a special kind of derisive emphasise on the word 'could'. "But let me tell you, that it would not seem the same exiting to you, if you had no other choice, than not being seen. If not only you fignity as a human being as well as your life depended on seeing, without being seen."  
  
At that she remained silent. He felt bad about having to tell her such a realistic sight of her future right at the beginning, but maybe then it would be fairer. Why the hell did he care about fairness? He had never been shown it himself. Was it the pureness of her young soul that suddenly taught him such things ...? Or his bad conscious, that he had thought to have lost long, long ago?  
  
A heavy silence threatened to fall upon them. The silence that had been his company for all of his life. But he did not let it be their's now. He decided to defeat it now with all of his strength. Yes, silence they would have to feel, but not this one.  
  
He started to sing for her in a low and light voice. It was a very simple melody, but it sounded as pure as coming from heaven. Christine was bewitched with his elysian song. She suddenly forgot every frightening word she had heard out of his mouth right now, it had only seemed frightening to her because she did not understand. Of course he had enough reasons to be sad and upset, but that would be over now, she was with him. Yet she did not see that she would share the darkness with him.  
  
The melody became so familiar to her, as if she had never listened to anything else. It was flowing over the surface of the black water, only sung for her, then she joined him and their voices became one, like two parts that had always belonged together. Two voices made for each others. And a song only made for them.  
  
That way it had to stay forever, Christine thought, and at the same time she was amazed how strange the people up above could be. Beauty could not be seen with the eyes, only a part of it, real beauty was different and so much bigger. It was an obstacle to have eyes, when wanting this experience.  
  
Much too soon they had reached the other shore of the lake, where the house was. It had always seemed a little frightening to her and she caught herself in hesitating at the threshold.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
***I knew it!!! I thought I would finish this damned story within a week – and now I am blocked again - B-L-O-C-K-E-D – such a simple, nice word for such a damn annoying thing. I have really tried anything: I listened to "The Music Of The Night" all the time. I tried to get drunk. I smoked a cigarette in the dark garden (I usually don't smoke), because I thought unusual actions would turn on my creativity. But in the end I was glad it was dark and no-one saw me – embarrassing – in the dark I lit the filter (I really couldn't see anything out there, good excuse?) I made myself some REALLY strong coffee to stay awake long enough, as the best ideas always come late at night. Nothing worked!  
  
But I'll try again and again. What will I be without writing? Maybe I should simply ignore the silly blocking and write just away – anything, maybe it's not that bad in the end.  
  
I turn on my computer – enter the chapter II file – reread it to get into the feeling and then something strange happens. I manage to recall the entire picture in front of my closed eyes, but it is different and also not. It does not move, it is more like a photograph .... or no ... my story looks more like an oil-painting. Everything seems to be frozen within the movement. Christine, just wanting to set her foot over the threshold, the flames of the candles, burning, but like frozen, the same with the water of the lake. One can't see much of it, only that it does not move at all, standing still in the middle of making gentle waves.  
  
Only one person, the one I did not mention yet, does seem to be alive. Erik. He turns around and I have the strange impression he is directly looking at me. He gives me a terribly annoyed look. He can't mean me!  
  
"Not again!" he moans in a way of being dramatically bored – if that is possible to be.  
  
As I don't have anything else to do (and no-one can hear me) I answer and I am honestly confused about him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You know, what I mean. I can't remember, you asked me to allow you that." He must be talking to me maybe I drank too much, what did I actually put into my coffee?  
  
"What?" was my very intelligent response again.  
  
"Writing! About me!" his voice was getting louder.  
  
I was still amazed and was getting curious at the same time. How can such a thing happen?  
  
"Should I have asked you?"  
  
He sighed in a way an adult does explaining something to a child for the twenty-seventh time.  
  
"Would you like to be falsified all the time? Can't you imagine that I feel used by all you wannabe-writers?  
  
"You are a character in a novel!"  
  
"A novel? One? Hundreds! I am used for fulfil the phantasies of my so- called 'phans'! They do with me what they want, I am what they want me to be. That isn't funny! No-one sees what I am really like!"  
  
"Really?" I ask rubbing my forehead. "You are not real. You are invention of Monsieur Leroux."  
  
"Of course ... Leroux is his name? I don't care I cannot know such things . I am lucky to have found out that I am not real. Things happen again and again, always in slightly different ways.  
  
"Are you that annoying to all of the writers?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why do I have the pleasure then?"  
  
"Coincidence. Don't take it personal."  
  
"Thank you. Would you now allow me to go continue?"  
  
"I have no choice."***  
  
to be continued .... 


End file.
